


mirror, mirror

by ladydetective



Series: Senior Sisters of Sweet Mercy [2]
Category: Book of the Ancestor Series - Mark Lawrence
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Memories, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydetective/pseuds/ladydetective
Summary: After a hard day, Apple reflects on her life and what brought her to this point - as well as what's in store for her moving forward.
Relationships: Sister Apple/Sister Kettle (Book of the Ancestor), Sister Apple/Sister Tallow
Series: Senior Sisters of Sweet Mercy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056746
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	mirror, mirror

**Author's Note:**

> so i didn't intend for this to be so long. it's the longest one-shot i've ever written? there's almost no canon proof for any of this stuff and i completely made it up but idk, i think it makes sense and i enjoyed coming up with it. since we don't know apple's canon name, i went with the one i chose in 'of soulmates and subterfuge'
> 
> BIG TW for past child abuse and domestic violence.

Lily wailed, and Apple groaned. It was a sound like a banshee’s cry - howling and howling and howling without an end in sight. The six-month old had been carrying on like this for hours, and nothing Apple did seemed to help. She’d fed her, changed her, tried to play with her - all to no avail. Fearing it was a sign she may be ill, she’d even taken her to the Sanatorium and had Rose take a look at her. The older woman insisted there was nothing wrong, and said she was simply in a mood that she would snap out of on her own. 

That had been hours ago, and still there was no sign of a détente. Her little face was as red as a tomato. “Shhhhh,” said Apple as she bounced her on her hip. She tried to make her voice sound soothing, but there was more than an edge of desperation to it. “ _ Please _ , Lily. Shhhhh.”

Her words had no effect. Apple could seldom remember a time in her life when she’d been so frustrated - tears of her own began to prick at the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t _ do _ this by herself. Kettle had always been better with Lily - she had a more instinctive understanding of what the baby needed, and could cheer her up whenever she got into a state like this. She bonded with her first, as well. Apple loved her daughter, she  _ did  _ \- she loved her more fiercely than she ever thought she was capable of - but it was something that had taken time to develop, and still wasn’t always easy. 

She muddled through, with Kettle at her side. The past few months had even been kind of… idyllic, actually. The war was over, she’d recovered from her injury and together, the three of them were a family - the kind of family that neither of them had ever really had but always wanted. 

But now Kettle was away on a mission. It wasn’t a long one - she’d be back at some point tomorrow - but it was the first time she’d been away since they adopted Lily. Apple hadn’t mentioned this to anyone, but a part of her had been terrified of being solely responsible for their daughter. She was so small, and there were so many things that could go wrong - but she’d been determined to push through it, to prove to both herself and Kettle that she could handle it. 

Clearly, she’d been wrong. The tears she’d been holding back fell free. When Lily noticed that her mother was also upset, she only cried harder. She couldn’t do this.  _ Ancestor _ , she’d been stupid to think she would ever be able to be a competent mother. For all her holy titles, she was a glorified assassin. It was her job to teach children how to kill, to send other assassins around the Empire to kill people in the name of the Ancestor. What business did she have, thinking she could raise a child? It had been folly from the very beginning. 

Besides, what example did she have? Her relationship with her own mother was… complicated, to say the least. They hadn’t spoken in years - they’d exchanged a few letters back and forth when she’d been a novice, but there had been nothing since. She wasn’t even sure that she was still alive. 

She’d loved her mother, in the beginning. They’d lived on a small farm in the country. They were wealthy enough to subsist on their produce, but not so wealthy that they were able to afford help. They - that is her mother, her father and Apple herself (though she hadn’t been called Apple then, her parents named her Grace) - had to do everything themselves. It was hard work, especially in Abeth’s harsh climate. 

Some of her earliest memories included helping her mother with her herbs. Her mother knew an awful lot about them, and she taught her daughter everything she knew. She showed her how the simplest plant could be used to heal a horse back to full fitness, or help a cow through the pains of childbirth. She’d been kind and patient with her as she learned, never scolding, always helpful. Grace had learned the healing potential of herbs long before she discovered how they could harm.

If only the rest of her early childhood had been like those moments, perhaps she would look back on both it and her mother with more fondness.  _ If only _ . 

As kind and as wonderful as she had been in those glorious little in-betweens, she was like a different person when her father was around. Grace’s father was a violent man. He spent a lot of time toiling in the fields - backbreaking work, and it made him angry. He believed himself above it all - by all accounts, he’d been intelligent when he was younger and had his heart set on furthering his education, but there hadn’t been any money for school. He’d been forced to stay on the farm, living out the exact same life as his father and grandfather before him. He took out his frustrations first on his wife, and then on his daughter. 

There was rarely a day that the two of them weren’t sporting a newly forming bruise. Grace learned quickly to cope with the pain, to close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else - but she’d been so young, and she didn’t understand why it kept happening. She’d  _ begged _ her mother to make it stop - to make  _ him _ stop - but the other woman was powerless to do so. Sometimes, she’d even scold her for asking. She’d tell her that her father loved them really, and that sometimes he just got a little cross. 

All Grace had wanted was for her mother to fight for her, and she never did. This caused resentment to simmer within her like a consuming poison, and it never really left. As an adult, she could acknowledge that this was perhaps not fair - her mother was, after all, also a victim of his abuse and often got it worse than she did - but understanding why she acted the way that she did and forgiving her for it were two entirely different things, and she still couldn’t bring herself to do the latter. She’d been a child, and her mother had not protected her. She’d had to learn how to protect herself.

Her marjal powers came in young - exceptionally young, she now knew. Usually, traces of abilities would manifest in the early teens, but she was just turned nine. She never told anyone this - except, later on, Kettle - but she theorised that the trauma she endured forced them out early. One day, she’d bungled a task on the farm - something simple, she hardly remembered what - and he’d been furious. He’d punched her square in the jaw, hard enough to send her sprawling. He straddled her so she could not run away, and prepared to strike her again. She raised her hands in an attempt to block the blow and flames erupted from them. 

Her surprise was almost as great as her father’s, but she had no time to dwell on it, no time to wonder at the new sensation. She just wanted him to  _ get off her _ . She raised her flaming hands to his face, and  _ pushed _ . 

The effect was immediate - he sprang back, clutching at his face and swearing. “You little  _ bitch _ ,” he seethed, “What have you done to me?”

Grace said nothing in response. She’d had a sharp tongue even at that age, but you didn’t talk back to her father. Doing so would only get you hit, or worse. He moved to attack her again, and she raised her hands defensively. They were still flaming - she hadn’t a clue how to stop it - and he did something he’d never done before. He backed down. He wasn’t a stupid man - he knew when he was beaten. His face was already reddening dramatically - the newly forming burns must have been agonising. 

_ Good _ , Grace thought defiantly. He deserved a taste of his own medicine. 

“You’re one of those. A  _ freak _ .” He spat the word, but the fear in his voice was undeniable. He was afraid of her - or at least, afraid of what she could do. A kind of dark pleasure ran through her at the thought - she’d spent her entire life terrified out of her wits because of this man, and now he was afraid of  _ her _ . She felt powerful for the first time she could remember. 

“Go...go clean this up,” he ordered, gesturing to the spilled grain that still littered the ground. He tried to imbue his voice with authority, to bring the exchange back into terms that he understood. “And then… and then we’ll see what happens. I need to talk to your mother - I won’t have a freak continue to live living under my roof, that I know for sure.”

Her hands extinguished themselves after he left, perhaps sensing that she no longer needed protection. Her parents gave her a wide berth that night, sending her to bed without supper. She didn’t mind this - any time spent away from her father was time well spent, in her book. Her stomach growled in protest, but it was a sensation she was used to. 

Her mother came in a few hours later. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but Grace thought her face was already red and swelling. When he’d been unable to beat his daughter, he’d likely taken out his frustration on his wife. Fresh anger rose within her - he couldn’t get away with this any longer. She’d burned him for hurting her, and she would burn him for hurting her mother. 

“Oh, Gracie,” sighed her mother, sitting down on the end of her bed. “What have you done?”

“I made him stop. And now I can make him stop hurting you, too!” Her voice was fierce. Her mother may not have protected her, but now she could protect the two of them. They wouldn’t have to fear him ever again. 

“No, my love, you can’t. You shouldn’t have done what you did. He’s going to send you away now, and I can’t stop him.”

Her eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “Send me away? Where? All I did was stop him hurting me.” She didn’t understand what the problem was, and she wasn’t sure how she felt at the prospect of being sent away - her life on the farm wasn’t a happy one, but it was all she knew. 

“I don’t know. Wherever will take you, I suppose. There’s a man coming tomorrow, and he’ll bring you to Verity. Somewhere will accept you, I’m sure of it. You’re a great help on the farm, and if you really can do… that thing with your hands, if you are one of them, then you might even have a nice life. Nicer than you’d have here, anyway.” There was a note of sadness to her voice, but she seemed resigned to the situation.

A thought struck her. “W-will I see you again?”

Her mother looked at her then, and stroked her cheek. “I don’t know, darling. But I’m sure you could write - I taught you your letters, you could get some use out of them.”

“I don’t want to leave you with him.” It wouldn’t be fair if she escaped the beatings and left her mother to deal with them alone. 

“You don’t have much of a choice. I’m sorry, Gracie, but your father won’t have you here anymore. I’ll be fine - and you know he doesn’t mean it, not really.”

This again. Her mother refused to see his true character, no matter how poorly he treated them. She knew it would only get worse if she went away. But she didn’t want to have this argument again. Instead, she flung herself into her mother’s arms, savouring the feel of them. The time she spent there now had a very finite number attached to it. 

The childtaker came the next morning. He was a peculiar man, of an age with her father. He looked her up and down, examining every inch of her. The weight of his gaze made her uncomfortable - there was something in his stare that she did not like, something sinister. “This the girl, then?” he asked, voice nonchalant. 

Her father nodded stiffly, but said nothing in response. The burns on his face were red and angry. The childtaker noticed them with clear interest.

“You said she conjured fire from her hands? Could she do that again?”

He jerked his head in her direction. “Show him, girl. Show him what you did to me.”

Grace raised her hands, willing the fire to come. As she probably should have expected, nothing happened. She’d never been able to do it before last night, and since they’d extinguished themselves, they hadn’t lit up again. She had no idea how to summon the flame. 

She stood with her hands outstretched for several long moments, looking like a fool. The man - Giljohn, she thought his name was - eventually took pity on her. “Not to worry, kid.” He nodded. “Most marjal talents won’t show ‘til you’re older. Last night was probably an accident. If you managed what your father says you did, you’re a prime at least. The Academy or the Convent will take you.” He eyed her red hair. “A pretty one, as well. The brothels will have you, if it comes down to it.”

Grace didn’t know what a brothel was, but judging by her mother’s horrified gasp and Giljohn’s calculating look, it wasn’t somewhere she wanted to end up. The childtaker turned back to her parents and said, in a tone that brooked no argument, “I’ll give you five silver for her. Take it or leave it.”

Her mother opened her mouth to protest, but her father cut across her. “Done,” he nodded. “One less mouth to feed. One less freak under my roof. Pleasure doing business with you, Sir.”

Money exchanged hands, and Grace was left with but a few moments to say goodbye to her parents. She didn’t say anything to her father, nor he to her. He left the room, and headed back into the fields, his pockets five silvers heavier. She was alone with her mother. Just as she had the previous evening, she fell into her arms. 

“Where is he going to take me, mama?” she asked, her voice petrified. She was nine years old - if only just - and she hadn’t called her mother ‘mama’ in years, but in the face of such sudden and overwhelming change, she regressed back into old habits. 

Her mother hesitated, and her grip tightened. “I don’t truly know, sweetheart. He mentioned the Convent and the Academy - they’re both good places, you’ll be happy there, I know it.”

“And...the other place?The brothel? What will happen to me there?” The word was foreign on her tongue, and her mother flinched as she spoke it. 

“ _ Nothing _ . You  _ won’t  _ end up there. Just show them what you can do, and it will be fine. I love you, my darling girl. Do me proud, wherever you end up.”

Giljohn took her away then, and she was put in a cage. It was already full of children, some older than her, some younger. There was hardly room for her to sit - she’d been trapped on the farm in many ways, but she’d at least always had space to herself. Here, it was as if the iron bars were closing in around her. 

One girl asked her name and how much she was bought for, and Grace gave her the answer to both of her questions. Some of the others were interested in her answers, but most simply appeared bored - she was very obviously  _ not _ the only person who had been picked up along the way, and they didn’t want to hear another sob story. This suited Grace perfectly - she had no great desire to speak to them, either. 

Perhaps, in different circumstances, she would have been more sociable. She’d had few enough chances to interact with children her own age - she had no siblings, and rarely left the isolated world of the farm - and a part of her  _ did _ yearn for some kind of connection, but a greater portion was terrified of what was to come. 

She’d tried and tried, but she hadn’t been able to make the fire come again. She could feel her chances of being accepted into either the Academy or the Convent slipping further and further away with every failure. In a moment of desperation, she asked one of the older girls what a ‘brothel’ was. The look of pity on her face made her regret the decision, and she practiced with renewed vigour afterwards. She would _ not _ end up there. She would  _ not _ go and live in a house where men like her father could come and paw at her whenever they wanted, she with no choice in the matter. She would  _ not  _ be powerless again. 

It made little difference. Giljohn’s cart rattled on, though it picked up no new children. They arrived in Verity after just a few short days. Grace stared at the sprawling metropolis in wonder - she’d never seen so many people, nor so many buildings. Her entire life up until that point had been the farm - there’d been very little mystery to it. She wanted to explore, to see what secrets she could uncover. 

The only thing that stopped her was the damned cage, as well as her fear of where she would go once she was sold from it. Giljohn started to sell children as soon as they arrived in the city - a handful of them, mostly the big or quick ones, went to a hard-looking man who apparently owned a big fighting pit. He wasn’t interested in her and she hadn’t expected him to be, but it still meant she was one stop closer to the brothel. The thought filled her with ever mounting dread, and it made concentrating on anything else - even her frantic attempts at summoning flame - difficult. 

The cart pulled up at the Academy later that afternoon. It was a beautiful building, right at the heart of the city - all of Verity was wondrous to a country girl, but Grace thought that this might be the best of the lot. She could  _ feel _ the magic emanating from the place - it was like a constant hum, and it called to parts of herself that she hardly knew existed. She could imagine herself studying there - filling her head with new information, learning how to hone her magic so she’d never have to fear men like her father again. 

Giljohn ushered her and another boy out of the cart and led them through elaborate wrought iron gates. A man greeted them - he was old and wore robes that, to Grace, appeared ridiculous. They were covered in odd markings that glowed, and the entire ensemble was fancier than any dress her mother ever wore. 

He regarded Giljohn with cool, disinterested eyes. “Well, childtaker? What have you got for me? Something better than last time, I hope. That boy was a liability, more than anything else. Hardly worth what it cost to feed him.”

Giljohn nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir. A very good bunch today, sir. Only two kids, but the boy - he’s showing early signs of being able to shadow-work, and the girl, well, she made a fire strong enough to damn near burn her father’s face off.”

The academic raised a cool eyebrow. “A likely story, I’m sure.” He turned to the boy. “Let’s see your shadow-weaving then, boy, and be quick about it - I have better things to be doing than seeing to the whims of children.”

The boy next to her was sweating, clearly nervous. It was likely the threat of some terrible fate hung over him just as the brothel fell over her. She hoped, for his sake, that he’d be able to do it. Perhaps they would even become friends, if they were both accepted here. The thought cheered her, if only somewhat. She watched him curiously, eager to see more examples of magic - the day she’d somehow made flames appear out of her hands had been the first time she’d witnessed any of it. He wiggled his fingers in strange motions and after a few moments, thin tendrils of dark matter flowed out of them. It looked like shadow, except more alive, somehow, and able to be manipulated by this boy. 

She stared, enraptured, but the academic merely offered a curt nod. “Adequate,” he sniffed. “You may stay. I’ll have an older student show you to the dormitory.” A wide smile broke across the boy’s face, and he thanked the man profusely. 

“You, girl,” he said, turning to her. “Show me this fire of yours, then.”

This was it. This was the moment she had been waiting for. She could not fail - her future relied on it. She closed her eyes and extended her hands,  _ willing _ the fire to come. 

Nothing happened. She could feel the Academic’s growing impatience. With rising panic, she tried to force her mind back into the space it had been in when her father had been bearing down upon her, ready to take another swing. She was almost as terrified now. She thought she might have felt something within her - the faintest flicker, perhaps - but still, her hands did not light. There wasn’t even a hint of smoke.

“Pathetic,” sneered the Academic. “Pathetic, even for one of your offerings, Giljohn. I do believe they get worse every time. Do try to bring me children with at least some basic competence next time, won’t you? Get out of my sight.”

Giljohn’s rough hand took her by the scruff of the neck and lugged her back to the cart. She could not move on her own - such was her terror. She hadn’t realised it before she entered the city and saw the majesty of the place, but she’d  _ wanted _ to study at the Academy. She’d  _ wanted _ to belong in its gilded halls. She wanted, above all, to be safe. Now, she’d been rejected from it and there was but one stop between her and the brothel. 

One last chance. She had one last chance to prove herself. The wagon, empty now save for the dregs remaining, rolled on, up a steep incline towards Sweet Mercy Convent. It was both the longest and shortest journey of her life - minutes felt like hours, and hours like minutes. Despair almost overwhelmed her - she’d been more confident of her chances of being accepted into the Academy than the Convent. She was able to read and write, if only at a basic level, and had a genuine passion for learning, whereas she wasn’t even entirely sure what happened in a Convent, other than a lot of praying. She wasn’t one for prayer - her parents both nominally worshipped the Ancestor, and she’d been to a handful of services in the local church, but it wasn’t something she could say she felt particularly drawn to. If the academics hadn’t wanted her, what hope had she with the nuns?

At last, the wagon came to a final, shuddering stop. Four-foot, the mule - a young and healthy creature, whom Grace had taken to petting on the long journey - sagged to the ground, exhausted after the sharp ascent. Giljohn nodded to her. “Come on then, girl. We’ll see if the nuns want you. They’re not a bad lot, all things considered.”

Grace tentatively left the wagon and walked with the childtaker to the Convent’s heavy door. It was not as elaborate as that of the Academy’s - indeed, the entire complex appeared remarkably simple. Giljohn knocked and within a few moments, the door opened to reveal a stern-faced woman. She was tall and striking, perhaps a little over ten years older than Grace herself. She wore a dark habit, and carried a sword at her waist. Grace blinked, confused.  _ What kind of nun carried a sword? What sort of place was this? _

“State your business,” she said, her voice brusque and business-like. 

Giljohn gulped. He seemed frightened of this fierce woman. Grace stared at her with a new respect that bordered on reverence - anyone who could cow him so deserved it. “Giljohn, the childtaker, ma’am. Here to see the Abbess and present a new crop of children to her.”

“The Abbess is away. Mistresses Shade and Spirit, as the Convent’s Sister’s Superior, are in charge.”

“Right,” said Giljohn, thinking very fast. “And… do they have the authority to pick up new recruits? It’s only this girl I really need shifting. It’ll be the brothel for her if you don’t take her.”

The nun spared her a glance. She had a piercing stare, and Grace felt her cheeks flush. An unfortunate habit - one that would take years of Shade training to iron out. Even then, some people still managed to elicit it out of her with little difficulty. “I’m not sure,” she said, a frown creasing her mouth at Giljohn’s words. “But there’s no harm in checking. Come and wait inside. I will fetch them for you.”

Grace and Giljohn entered the Convent and waited in the entryway while the nun went to fetch Mistress Shade and Mistress Spirit, whoever they were. She still didn’t really understand what was happening. She looked around her, desperate for any distraction from her turbulent thoughts. While not as ornate as the Academy, there was something… comfortable about the Convent. Cozy, even. It felt like a home - like it existed to do more than churn out the next generation of mages. It was warm, too - a marked contrast to outside’s sharp ice-wind. 

After a few minutes, the nun who’d shown them in returned, two other nuns on her heels. They both wore habits, but neither carried swords and their headresses were a different shape. They were older, too - one she would estimate had seen forty winters, the other perhaps sixty. The younger of the two wore a scowl that looked like it might be permanently affixed to her face, whereas the expression on the older woman was harder to read. 

“Thank you, Sister Tallow,” said the older nun, “You may resume your patrol. You were right to send for us.” Tallow left, though she shot a brief smile to Grace before she did so. It made her stomach feel funny, even amidst everything that was going on. 

The nun turned to Grace and Giljohn, and offered them both a smile. It was an expression that could mean a number of things. “Giljohn. A pleasure, as always.” Her voice didn’t sound particularly happy. “I presume this is the girl you wish to foist on us.” She turned to Grace, and her tone softened. “Well, girl. What is your name?”

Grace was scared, but also acutely aware that this was her last chance. She  _ must _ make a good impression. She looked the older woman straight in the eye, and did her best to keep her voice even. She had a lot of practice at this - her father didn’t like it when she cried. It tended to make him rage harder. “Grace. My name is Grace, ma’am.”

The woman nodded. “Grace. A lovely name. I’m Sister Ivy, Mistress Shade here at Sweet Mercy. This is Sister Wheel. She’s Mistress Spirit. You’ll find out what that means if you come and study with us. Now, can you tell us why you would be a good fit? Do you have any… abilities… that would be an asset to the Convent?”

Giljohn opened his mouth to give the pitch he’d previously given to the academic, but Sister Ivy raised a single finger, effectively silencing him. “I would prefer to hear from Grace herself.”

Grace hesitated, debating what to tell the other woman. She’d been nice to her so far - but would she continue to be when she heard what she did? And her mother always said she shouldn’t tell other people what her father did to them. It might get him into trouble. But Grace didn’t care if he got into trouble. And the nun at the door carried a sword - she still didn’t fully understand what kind of place this was, but maybe they wouldn’t count a violent action against her. “I made fire come out of my hands. My father, he - he was hurting me, and I made him stop.” She blinked up at the nun, almost daring her to comment. 

Sister Ivy’s eyes narrowed in concern, but she didn’t press further. “Could you make the fire come again for me?”

For what felt like the thousandth time in a handful of days, Grace extended her hands and begged the flames to come. She tried everything - cajoling, begging, ordering - but nothing worked. There wasn’t even an ember. 

She was going to be sent to the brothel. 

She could feel her face falling despite her best efforts to remain stoic. Sister Ivy patted her on the shoulder. “Not to worry,” she said, her voice kind. “Sometimes, marjal talents will emerge in a sudden burst when we’re very young and then disappear again until we’re older and have had more training. Look,” she said, extending her hand. A small, controlled burst of fire appeared. She extinguished it with a flourish. “It took me years to learn that. I can teach it to you, too.”

Grace stared at the woman in wonder. Did this mean… she was going to stay?

Sister Wheel snorted. “You can’t be serious, Ivy. The girl can’t even access the power she claims she has, and it’s obvious from looking at her that she’s no hunska or gerant. We aren’t a charity. We can’t admit every base-born child who crawls to our door. Throw her out and let it be done.”

Ivy rounded on her, eyes angry and voice as cool as ice. “If I recall, Wheel,  _ you _ would not be here today had Abbess Lane decided not to admit charity cases. The girl is a child. She cannot use her power yet because she has not been shown how to. _ I _ will show her, when she is admitted as a novice.”

Wheel recoiled, her face flushing with fury. Ivy’s words had struck a nerve. A part of Grace quailed - she knew from experience that this kind of anger never led anywhere good. Mentally, she prepared herself for the blow she was sure was coming. 

“ _ You _ don’t have that authority, Ivy. Only the Abbess can make a decision like this.” She practically spat the words but much to Grace’s surprise, made no moves towards violence. Still, she kept her guard up. 

“The Abbess left her Senior Sisters in charge, and  _ I _ say we take her in. You’re perfectly free to take up the issue with her when she gets back, but be warned - she will not look favourably upon picking a fight with me in your first week on the job, and nor do I.” Ivy never raised her voice, but the threat in her words was clear. “Besides, she’ll take my side anyway. She understands perfectly well how useful orphans are to the church.”

Some of the wind seemed to leave Wheel’s sails as she realised the truth of Ivy’s words, but her face remained mutinous. She turned her attention to Grace and narrowed her eyes. “I’m watching you, peasant. One toe out of line and you’ll be out of this door and back on the streets, where you belong.”

She left the entryway in a huff, leaving Ivy and Grace alone. Giljohn leaned awkwardly against the wall, waiting for his payment but not brave enough to ask for it. Ivy reached into her habit and pulled out a handful of coins. “Your payment, childtaker. Leave this place, and next time return when the Abbess is present, if you wish to avoid any more unpleasantness.”

He nodded his thanks, and left. Grace felt her spirits soar as she watched him leave without her. For days now, she had lived in fear of being the last one left on the cart and ending up at the brothel. That wasn’t going to happen, and it was down to the woman in front of her. Sister Ivy had fought for her to be here - she could have rejected her when she couldn’t work her powers, she could have shrugged her shoulders and agreed with Wheel for the sake of avoiding an argument - but instead she  _ fought _ for her. She stood her ground, and she fought for her in the way that Grace wished her mother would but never did. 

Ivy smiled at her. “Welcome to Sweet Mercy,” she said, and extended a hand for Grace to take. She took it happily, glad to have some human contact. “Come, I’ll show you around. I have a feeling that you’re going to be very happy here.”

* * *

Life at Sweet Mercy was very different from the one she’d left behind. There were so many  _ people _ , she hardly knew what to do with them. The farm had been isolated - just her, her mother and her father. Sometimes, she’d interact with a handful of people from a nearby village, but that had been the extent of it. Here, seldom a minute went by where some new person didn’t catch her attention. 

She was sent to sleep in a dormitory with a host of other girls. This in itself was an adjustment - she’d always slept alone before - but she quickly found that it had its advantages. When visions of her father’s face, red and mottled with anger, swarmed before her in her dreams, there was a certain level of comfort in knowing she wasn’t alone, that she was in fact surrounded by the sleeping bodies of her classmates. 

The girls themselves were harder to get used to. Most of them came from Sis families - or at least, from very wealthy merchant ones. When Grace opened her mouth and spoke in her provincial country accent, they looked at her strangely. Some even laughed. It hurt her feelings, but even at the tender age of nine, she’d suffered worse. The jeering served her well in the end, anyway - within a few short weeks, she learned to speak as if she were born a member of the highest halls of the Sis. It was talent that came in useful as a Sister of Discretion. Her classmates soon forgot her humble origins, and she even became close with some of them. 

Sister Wheel did not let things go as easily. She’d meant her words on the first night they met - she watched her like a hawk, and was quick to dole out punishment for any perceived wrongdoing. Grace tried her hardest to avoid this, but it wasn’t always easy - she’d spent her life under the thumb of a bully, and didn’t want to do it anymore, even if the face of the bully had changed. Still, though - she knew that a moment’s rebellion was rarely worth feeling the crack of the whip, so she largely kept her head down. 

Spirit lessons with Wheel were their own form of torture. Grace was a naturally curious child and wanted to know more about the faith these women pledged their lives to, but Mistress Spirit did not welcome questions or inquiries. She came to the faith on her own after several years, but it had little to do with Wheel’s instruction - and even then, it was perhaps not as strong as a Sister of Sweet Mercy’s ought to be. 

Path was better. Sister Ivy explained to her all about the four tribes on that first night. She was not a quantal, so she could only be so good at the subject, but she demonstrated a strong proficiency for the trances that Sister Pan taught. Most of her classmates preferred to ignore them in favour of the Blade-Path, but the old woman said that they would be useful in her other classes, and Grace believed her. The patience trance helped her get through Spirit with Wheel, at any rate. 

Blade was… not her best class, but she performed well enough in it to keep up. She’d been shocked to learn that novices at Sweet Mercy were taught to handle a range of weapons, and that Red Sisters were some of the Empire’s most fearsome warriors - it seemed to fundamentally clash with her ideas of what a nun was. She wasn’t complaining, though - a part of her  _ liked _ the power that learning to fight gave her. She would never again be the defenseless pawn of a man more powerful than she was - she’d be able to fight back, to make him hurt. 

At her core, though, she did not like violence. She’d grown up in a violent home, and wanted to solve conflicts in other ways. Besides - she was slower than her hunska classmates and weaker than her gerant ones. She never really stood much of a chance against them in open conflict. She learned enough in Blade to know how to defend herself and to pass the class, but that was about as far as her passion for the subject ran. 

Academia was a different matter. Sister Rule was of an age with Sister Wheel, but had an entirely different teaching philosophy. She taught Grace about everything - history and geography, science and mathematics. The girl devoured all this information, and searched for more. The older nun welcomed questions, and Grace asked them frequently. Reading and writing was a struggle at first - her mother  _ had _ taught her her letters, but the instruction was very basic and didn’t help her overmuch with the complicated texts she was assigned. Her skills improved over time - she spent many hours in the Library and Scriptorium, pouring over old scrolls and repeating letters again and again until she got them right. She could have asked for help with this - but then the image of her classmates faces when she first arrived would spring to mind. She would not make herself appear  _ more _ like an uneducated peasant to them, so she worked in silence. It paid off - she quickly rose to the top of Academia, and it was a position she held for her entire time as a novice at Sweet Mercy. 

A dark part of her revelled in receiving the education her father had been denied. This, after all, had been what he wanted.  _ She _ , not he, was recipient of one of the finest schoolings in the Empire. She was as learned as scions as the Sis - and performed better than them in classes. Still - that was only a part of her. The rest of her just genuinely loved learning, as well as discovering new things. She never felt more herself than when she was reading some dusty tome from cover to cover, trying to decipher the secrets it held. 

As much as she loved and was good at Academia, Shade was where her talents truly lay. She knew she liked Ivy that first night, but over the next few months she developed a serious case of hero worship. The other woman was hypnotic when she spoke, and Grace was transfixed. She showed her the subtle arts, that there were ways other than brute force to get what you wanted. Why slay an entire army when a whispered word in the right ear at the right time, or a drop of poison in the correct cup, could accomplish the same goal? A war could be won without spilling a drop of blood. 

In many ways, Shade was a dark mirror of the herbalism her mother had taught her. Under Sister Ivy’s tutelage, she learned that for every herb that could heal, there were a dozen more that could do harm. A single leaf from an innocuous-looking plant could fell even the mightiest of warriors. Grace  _ devoured _ all information related to poison - she listened attentively to Mistress Shade’s lessons and afterwards conducted her own private study in the library. The knowledge that she could cause such devastating harm even without any particular skill at arms made her feel powerful - like she’d never be a passive victim again. Just a couple of months into Red Class, her knowledge of poison surpassed that of most Holy Class novices who themselves sought to take the Grey. Ivy called her a prodigy - and boasted to Sister Wheel at every chance she got. 

The more she learned, the more she understood how deeply wrong her early childhood had been. She’d always feared her father, but now she  _ hated _ him. She hadn’t deserved the way he treated her. He was a violent lunatic, and none of her mother’s placating words had been correct. He didn’t love them really, and he wouldn’t change. She worried desperately for her mother, alone on the farm with him. Ancestor only knew what he was doing to her, now that he didn’t have a child to divide his attention. She’d exchanged a handful of letters with her mother, and what she wrote concerned her. She was thrilled that her daughter had been accepted into the Convent, but her fake optimism for her own future hadn’t fooled Grace. There were even traces of blood at the end of her last letter - it was smudged as if the older woman had tried to wash it away, but she wasn’t fooled. 

_ Something _ needed to be done about him, that much was clear. His face tormented her dreams every night - a part of her knew that she would not truly be able to move on in her new life while he still roamed Abeth.

The idea came to her after one particularly interesting Shade lesson. She  _ knew _ how to end a man’s life without raising a weapon - why not put those lessons into practical affect? Her father certainly deserved it - she could hardly think of a person who’d earned the dubious honour of being her first kill more than he. 

Turning the plan from a half-baked daydream into a viable solution to her life-long problem required her to utilise all of Ivy’s lessons - she broke into the woman’s own stores using the lock-picking techniques that she had taught her and stole the poison from her earlier lesson. Blue scorpion - if she got the dosage right, he’d die an agonising death - and she always got the dosage right. A part of her felt guilty for stealing from the person who fought for her to be here - the  _ only _ person who’d ever fought for her - but wasn’t this what the Grey was all about? Using the skills they were taught in order to bring about the Ancestor’s will? Grace didn’t yet know much about the Ancestor, but she didn’t think he’d begrudge her the life of a man who’d mercilessly beaten his wife and daughter. 

The next part of her scheme required her to steal a single, perfect red apple from the kitchens. In its own way, this was harder than stealing from Ivy’s stores - the kitchens were always busy - but Mistress Shade had been privately tutoring her in shadow-work. Normally, this would be left until she was older - but the older woman claimed that she showed such promise that there was no reason she couldn’t begin learning now. A part of Grace worried that the time with the fire had indeed been a fluke, that she had no great powers of note - but she needn’t have, because shadow manipulation actually came easy to her, once she received some competent instruction. Not only that, it also felt good - like before, she’d been walking around with a part of her missing and she was now suddenly whole. The shadows called to her, practically begging her to borrow their power. She could think of no better way to practice her new talents.

Her father always loved apples - she stole the juiciest one she could find and coated it with blue scorpion, then sent it to the farm in an envelope marked with his name. It had seemed an infallible plan, to a child - she’d been so young, and so high on her new abilities that she could not conceive of it going wrong. As an adult, she cringed at the memory - she would not sanction a mission that left so much to chance now. Someone else could have opened the package and eaten the apple, it could not have reached its intended target in the first place. Her father could have continued to live for decades whilst some poor undeserving soul died because of her own youthful arrogance. 

He didn’t. The plan - miraculously - went off without a hitch. She received a last, curt letter from her mother, telling her of what happened. He’d fallen suddenly, violently ill - no apparent cause was obvious - and died shortly after. The news that it had  _ worked _ , that he was  _ gone _ , lifted a weight off her shoulders that had been there since before she could remember. She still had bad dreams - would continue to have bad dreams long into her adult life - but they were less scary, now that she knew he was dead. He had no power over her any more. 

Life at the Convent continued to improve for her after she killed the ghost of her past. Without his spectre hanging over her in all her waking hours, she was able to open herself up more to those around her. Some of them were still snobby Sis bitches who acted like all she was fit for was shining their shoes, but most of them were alright. She even made some friends, though she was still a largely reserved person. 

The Naming Ceremony happened a scant month after she put her father in the ground. Ivy primed her for what to expect - if she wished to take vows after her time as a novice came to a close, then she would need to choose a Holy Name. Grace still wasn’t sure what she thought of the Ancestor - all the rot that Wheel came out with seemed like superstitious nonsense to her, and she couldn’t  _ ever _ see herself as someone who took it seriously - but still, she had more than an idea of what she wanted to do with her life. Ivy, as always, showed her the way - she would be a Sister of Discretion, and employ her considerable talents in the Church’s service. Sweet Mercy was her home, and she would not leave it. 

Sister Pan smiled at her as she entered path tower, her aged face illuminated by the fire’s glowing light. “And what are you to be called as Sister, child?” she asked, voice mysterious. 

Grace didn’t even need to think about it. The novices were told that most chose names that reminded them in some way of home. She didn’t want to be reminded of the farm - but she could always use a reminder of how she came to leave it, of the power and skill that resided within her. She matched the old woman’s smile. “I will be Sister Apple.”

* * *

Apple blinked, the memory disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared.  _ Ancestor _ , it had been years since she’d even  _ thought _ about any of this. She hadn’t even realised that she remembered it so clearly. In her arms, Lily continued to cry. This was no longer a source of frustration, and she bounced the baby on her hip. “Sssshhhh,” she said, her voice far more soothing than it had been earlier, “Calm down, little one. Mama’s not upset anymore - can you be a brave girl and calm down for mama?”

It took another few minutes of bouncing and reassuring sounds, but eventually -  _ miraculously _ \- the little girl’s sobs subsided into sniffles before quietening down entirely. She rested her head on Apple’s chest, exhausted by her hysterics. 

Apple felt a surge of love for her daughter. It wasn’t easy -  _ fuck _ , it wasn’t easy - but she  _ could _ do this. Her earlier thoughts were ridiculous - yes, her relationship with her own mother was… complicated… to say the least, but that didn’t mean she was destined to repeat the same patterns. Motherhood wasn’t something she’d ever imagined herself voluntarily participating in, but now that she had her little girl, she knew she would do anything for her. She’d fight the entire Schithrowl horde, if she had to - and she would never,  _ ever _ hurt her. Her baby would never be subjected to the harm that she herself endured. 

She placed a tender kiss to Lily’s forehead and smoothed her quickly growing hair. “Time for you to go to bed, I think.”

She went down without too much protest, snuggled next to a toy that Arabella had bought her. Sister Thorn wasn’t technically meant to still have money of her own, never mind actively spend it - but blind eyes were frequently turned when Lily was in the picture. The younger nun spoiled her rotten. 

Apple fixed herself a glass a Sweet Mercy red and sat, exhausted. She’d been on gruelling missions as a Sister of Discretion, but she didn’t think anything tired her out as much as caring for a screaming infant did. Her mind, despite her best intentions, lingered on her trip down memory lane. She didn’t like thinking about her early childhood - of the people she was close to, only Kettle knew what it had been like for her. Tallow had known some, but she was gone now. Images from it sometimes rose, unbidden - but she rarely allowed herself to dwell on it for too long. It was easier to move forward. 

But tonight, it was as if something in her mind  _ wanted  _ her to reminisce. She  _ tried _ to force her mind in other directions, to think of the million and one things she needed to do - but the memories kept bleeding in. She sighed, and took a long sip of her wine. Best just get this over with. 

* * *

There was never any doubt that she would take the Grey. She worked towards it her entire time as a novice at Sweet Mercy, and became proficient in all aspects of Shade-work. Her marjal talents were considerable, too - Giljohn had been right all those years ago. She  _ was _ a prime, and under Ivy’s tutelage, her powers flourished. Her shadow-work was excellent - unmatched amongst the current crop of Greys - and she was also able to do some marjal healing. Sister Rose had even offered her an apprenticeship in the Sanatorium - though Apple didn’t think the other woman ever expected her to take it. Everyone knew she was destined for the Grey. 

Fire still didn’t come easily to her - though she eventually mastered it towards the end of Holy Class. She didn’t  _ need _ it - Ivy told her that the most Greys used firework for on missions was lighting campfires, and she’d learned how to do  _ that _ in Blade - but it had become a point of pride. She’d entered the Convent as a terrified nine year old who’d accidentally tapped into powers she didn’t understand, and she wanted to graduate it having mastered the ability. Ivy had laughed at her reasoning, but never gave up on teaching her - despite her own ailing health. 

Her talent for poison continued to flourish - she built up quite the reputation around the Convent. People were careful not to get on her bad side - those stupid enough to trifle with her tended to end up the victims of conveniently timed and suddenly occurring illnesses. The rest quickly learned their lesson. 

She’d been almost foolishly eager to go on her first mission. She’d been so supremely confident in her own skills and knowledge that she hadn’t dreamed it would go anything other than completely smoothly.  _ Ancestor _ , she’d been an arrogant twit - Apple herself would have punished a Grey who’d been half as cocky as she was. 

The premise was simple enough - travel to a neighbouring city and slay a merchant who’d been giving the local church no small amount of trouble. The journey itself was an event - aside from the rangings and various Shade trials, she’d barely left the Convent since she joined it, and she certainly hadn’t travelled further than Verity. Why would she? Her mother had no interest in seeing her, and she had no other family. 

Still, she encountered few problems and entered the merchant’s lodgings undetected after two days of carefully observing his habits. She would have preferred to slip something nasty into his evening meal - but Ivy had been specific in her instructions. She was to slit his throat as he slept. Apple trusted there was a reason for this - some message to be sent, a lesson to be taught to the other merchants, perhaps. Whatever it was, she would obey her Mistress Shade. 

She entered his bedchamber without making a sound, Shadows coalescing around her. She was death itself, come to claim its bloody tithe. The merchant laid in his bed, sound asleep. Soft snores escaped his mouth, and his arm lay entwined around the waist of his sleeping wife. They looked… peaceful. An ordinary couple, on an ordinary night. 

The sight of them gave her pause. Tomorrow, the woman would wake up bathed in a pool of her husband’s blood. It would be an event she could never forget - the kind of thing that could twist a person, change them into something unrecognisable. Her life would never be the same again. 

Still, Apple stepped closer and unsheathed her knife soundlessly. It felt heavy in her hand, like her own body was protesting the act she was about to commit. She’d never thought she would take issue with killing - she’d killed before, after all. Her own father, when she’d been just nine years old. But he was a vile man, and had most assuredly deserved the fate she’d meted out. But what had this man done, really? Stirred up trouble for the Church of the Ancestor. As far as she knew, he hadn’t killed anyone. He wasn’t a rapist or an abuser. He just picked a fight with the wrong people. Did he really deserve to die for that? 

Her hand stilled. She needed to make a decision - even the best Sister of Discretion could not remain undetected like this for too long. Soon enough, they would wake - which could force an even uglier confrontation. What were her options? What were the consequences of failure at this juncture? She could be kicked out of Sweet Mercy. Technically, she supposed, she could be offered the Black of a Holy Sister - but she doubted Sister Wheel would extend that to her. The Convent had been her home for ten years now - she did not want to leave. She had nowhere else to go. Old fears crept back - the fear of the brothel, the fear of once again knowing the burn of a man’s fist. A distant part of her knew that she would be alright - her education had afforded her skills - skills that would ensure she never had to resort to that, but it was impossible to truly know. 

It was the Grey, or nothing.

Her failure would also disappoint Sister Ivy. Apple loved the older woman - she’d been there for her like no other, had fought for her in a way no one else had. She’d taught her everything she knew. This  _ must _ be another kind of test - she’d told her in no uncertain terms to do it this way. She must have read that Apple would struggle with a more physical confrontation and thought it necessary to test her mettle. And she’d been right - Ivy had seen parts of her that Apple herself hadn’t until this point. She didn’t want to disappoint her. She  _ would not _ disappoint her. 

She cast a final glance towards the sleeping couple and raised her knife, making her final decision. 

It was over in one smooth motion. It took a matter of seconds for the man to die after she cut his throat. She’d known, logically, that there would be a lot of blood - but knowing still didn’t prepare her for the huge quantity that erupted from the wound. It went  _ everywhere _ \- over the bedding, the walls, Apple herself. The wife still did not stir - a good thing, otherwise she would have been expected to finish her too. A Sister of Discretion must not leave witnesses. 

It was easier, after the first. Apple never acquired a taste for blood and preferred to finish off targets with poison if she could, though she did not shy away from getting more physical if she absolutely had to. She passed Ivy’s test, and with flying colours. If the older woman suspected it was more difficult for her than she suggested in her mission report, she did not bring it up. She rose quickly up the ladder and became one of Sweet Mercy’s best operatives.

Despite her successes - and they were many, especially for a girl who’d come from nothing - she came to realise that she was lonely. She hadn’t heard from her mother in years. The friends she made as a novice had either graduated and left the Convent, or taken their vows and were busy living their own lives. Greys were few in number and not all that well-liked within the Sisterhood. 

She yearned for companionship - someone who understood what it was like, who she could talk to without fear of judgement or condemnation. Someone her own age, or close to it. 

Tallow was that for her. She’d always had a crush on the older woman - had done since her very first night at the Convent and she’d been this mysterious, exciting figure who’d smiled at her and made her feel like everything was going to be okay. It only grew as she did - she spent her years as a novice hearing incredible tales of her famous exploits, admiring her from afar. She realised that she liked women through watching Tallow practice in Blade Hall - she was all sharp angles, rippling muscles, powerful movements. There was something incredibly sexy about a woman who could snap you in half if she wanted - and Apple did want. She’d probably thank her for it. 

When Tallow retired as an active Red Sister and took over from Sister Spear as Mistress Blade, Apple tried harder than she could ever remember trying in that class in a desperate bid to impress her. It didn’t make a difference, of course - the other woman was a consummate professional, and never so much as looked at her twice. It didn’t stop the delighted shiver that ran down her spine whenever she complimented her ever-improving form, however. 

It took years for them to interact in a non-school setting. Apple had already been a Grey Sister for over a year, and she and Tallow were assigned a dual-mission together. She’d entered it determined to impress the other woman - and impress she had. They slept together on the way home, and continued to do so for several months afterward. It was nothing like the youthful encounters she’d had as a novice - Tallow’s prowess in the bedroom was almost equal to her prowess on the battlefield. They had  _ fun _ together - something the two of them were in dire need of. 

The physical relationship didn’t last very long. Neither of them was ever under the illusion that they were in love with one another and they parted amicably, mutual curiosity sated. They did, however, remain friends. They had a lot in common - many of their personal beliefs were similar, and they each possessed the ability to make the other laugh when no one else could. They often sat together at Convent Table, and talked to each other about their feelings and frustrations when it felt like no one else could understand. They  _ got  _ each other. 

From her perch in the Shade Caverns, a single tear rolled down Apple’s cheek. She  _ missed _

her friend. The Convent wasn’t the same without her. In the first few months after the battle, sometimes she’d forget and make her way towards Blade Hall for a long overdue catch-up, before remembering. Other times, she found herself pondering what Tallow would think of the bizarre turn her life had taken. What would she think of Lily? Would she have laughed at her for somehow finding a way to land herself with a baby despite having sworn to lead a childless life? Or would she have simply offered to help with the babysitting? Apple liked to think that Tallow would have made a good aunt. She’d’ve shown Lily how to throw a punch and swing a sword as soon as the little girl was old enough to lift one. No doubt Nona would shoulder that particular burden now, but - it wasn’t the same. 

Apple swiped at her face in a fruitless attempt to banish the tears. Enough of this - sitting here and thinking about the past wasn’t getting her anywhere. She needed to move  _ forwards _ , not backwards. Clearly, her mind was not going to let her focus on anything that she needed to do tonight. Turning in was the most productive thing she could do. 

* * *

Despite her best intentions, Apple tossed and turned in her bed. This wasn’t usual - ever since they took in Lily, she’d been falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Having a baby made you grateful for whatever moments of peace you could grab. But her mind was like a dam that had suddenly burst - memories that she hadn’t thought about in years came flooding to the surface like a tidal wave, competing with one another for attention. 

No doubt the empty space where Kettle should be wasn’t helping. There’d been a time that they were perfectly accustomed to sleeping apart from one another - Wheel and her incessant chastity checks made sure of that - but ever since the battle and her injury, she and Kettle had spent every night together. They’d grown used to falling asleep in each other's arms and then waking up like that come morning. Her bed - in itself a luxury in a Convent where the nuns were supposed to sleep on pallets in cells - felt cold and empty without her lover in it. 

She briefly toyed with the idea of letting Lily stay with her for the night - they were trying to keep her in her crib as much as possible so she learned to sleep on her own, though under the circumstances…. - but ultimately decided against it, not wanting to trigger another bout of hysterics. 

_ Ancestor _ , this was pathetic. There was a time - not all that long ago - when she wouldn’t see Kettle for weeks or even months and be  _ fine _ . Well, relatively fine - she might have poisoned a few more students than normal and allowed others to feel the sharp end of her tongue - but everyone had their coping mechanisms. Now she couldn’t even handle a single  _ night _ . 

The battle had changed them all in more ways than one. It reminded them that they were mortal, that they could _ die _ just as so many of their friends had. They’d  _ clung  _ to one another afterwards - it might not have been the healthiest response, but it was all they could do after coming closer than they ever had before to losing each other. 

Apple loved Kettle so much that it sometimes terrified her. There was a part of her - the part that had grown up in an abusive household and built walls around her heart so high that she doubted anyone would ever be able to penetrate them - that looked at this beautiful, wonderful, _kind_ woman and thought, _what on Abeth did I ever do to deserve you?_ _What deity was smiling down on me the day I met you?_

The first time they’d met, Apple hadn’t an inkling of how much she would come to mean to her. She’d been 22 years old and had already been a Grey Sister for several years. She had a number of daring assassinations under her belt and had already built up a reputation for her ruthless efficiency. She was the clear successor to Sister Ivy, whose health had been failing for some time. She wasn’t always able to perform every task the role required of her, so she often allowed favoured Greys to fill in.

Apple agreed to take on some of her Shade classes - which was how she found herself covering some of Kettle’s Holy-level lessons. She didn’t think too much of her, at first - she was very attractive and exceptional at all Shade-work - but that was as deep as it ran. They were teacher and student, and didn’t have reason to interact with each other outside of the classroom. She spent most of her time with another dark-haired novice, and the two appeared very close. 

It wasn’t until she was appointed Kettle’s personal Grey mentor that they began to spend more time together. Nothing happened between them - Apple took her new responsibilities far too seriously, and Kettle was still in a relationship - but they  _ did _ grow closer. They spent long hours together, Apple imparting the tricks of the trade to her very talented student. For her own part, Kettle was intelligent and very easy to get along with. They often got distracted and wound up discussing things they’d read or telling stupid stories. 

There was… an undeniable tension between the two of them. Other people noticed it, including Safira.  _ Safira _ . Even all these years later, her blood still boiled at the thought of the other woman. The harm she’d subjected Kettle to was something she’d never be able to forgive - Apple would have killed her in a heartbeat, if she thought that was what her lover wanted. It wasn’t - for all of Kettle's icy professionalism in the field, she had a soft heart when it came to those she loved - and she’d spent years loving Safira. She wouldn’t see her killed, regardless of what she’d done. 

Safira had noticed the spark between them, and she didn’t like it. She’d always, according to Kettle, been a little on the possessive side - but it reached new heights after their private lessons. They argued about it - and the last of these arguments resulted in Kettle getting  _ stabbed _ . She’d almost  _ died _ . Certainly, her leg had never been the same again. 

Safira was expelled from the Convent and forbidden from taking the veil - though there were those who claimed that her crime warranted drowning. Wheel argued vociferously for the latter option - it was the first and only time Apple agreed with her at Convent Table. 

She’d spent a lot of time at Kettle’s bedside. It wasn’t a time she liked to remember - even then, the sight of the other woman’s pain was difficult for her to bear. The injury was a bad one - the knife had cut deep and caused a great amount of bleeding. It took her weeks to be able to walk even a handful of steps on it, and longer to travel any notable distance. The sting of Safira’s betrayal had cut deeper than the knife, however. 

“We’d been friends since I came to the Convent,” Kettle had said, a note of deep sadness in her voice. “She was my first friend, really. She’d always been… tempestuous, but I never thought she’d hurt me like that. I  _ loved _ her.”

Apple hadn’t known what to say in response to that, so she’d grabbed her hand and squeezed it in a way she hoped was comforting. 

“You were right,” she continued, eyes dull. “Trust really is the most insidious of poisons.”

A pang went through Apple at the other woman’s words. She  _ had _ said that to her in one of their lessons a few weeks ago, and Kettle argued against it vehemently. She claimed that you had to trust the ones you loved, or the loneliness and paranoia would drive you insane. Apple scoffed at her at the time and doubled down on her own point, but now, looking into her despondent eyes, she didn’t think she wanted it to be true. 

“Maybe,” she said, “But even so, I trust you.”

A slow smile spread across Kettle’s face and she squeezed Apple’s hand in return. It wasn’t quite enough to banish the lingering sadness - it would take years for her to truly get over Safira and the pain she had inflicted - but it was something. A start. A taste of a new beginning. 

They continued to spend a lot of time together in Kettle’s final weeks in Holy Class. The novice’s injury had raised questions about whether or not she was fit to take the Grey - everyone seemed to doubt her, but the young woman was determined. Apple dedicated a lot of time to helping her train, and she was not a soft teacher. She wouldn’t go easy on her because of this strange… affection… between them. 

It paid off. In defiance of expectation, Kettle passed all of the Grey trials in spite of her injury and was rewarded with the Grey cloak of a Sister of Discretion. Apple couldn’t deny the surge of pride she’d felt at the ceremony - she’d never mentored anyone before, and there was something uniquely special in helping them realise their ambitions. After everything she’d been through, Kettle deserved it more than most. 

They kissed for the first time shortly after. It felt strangely inevitable - like they’d been building towards it since the day they first met. It happened at the end of a dual-assignment, and was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She finally  _ belonged _ somewhere - Sweet Mercy had been her home for several years and she liked it well enough, but she’d always kept herself at something of a distance from the people within it. She’d been too afraid to give her whole self, to show her vulnerabilities to the world - but with Kettle, that wasn’t an issue. She wanted to share, to be known. 

Neither of them ever looked back from that moment. A lot of things changed in their relationship - new jobs, (several) near-death experiences, motherhood - but one thing remained constant; they loved each other, and only grew to love each other more as time wore on. They were raising a family together, and would grow old together. It had been a rocky road to get to this point - they’d both dealt with a lot in their comparatively short time on Abeth - but she looked forward to the experiences they had yet to share. She was sure that the best was yet to come. 

Now, if only she could get some damned  _ sleep _ .

Just as her eyes were beginning to flutter closed, the door opened with a creak. Apple shot up and made a grab for the knife she always kept down the side of her bed, mind racing. Who would intrude at this time of night? Surely, no novice would be stupid enough. A noi-guin, maybe? Their organisational structure had been decimated by the consequences of their stubborn loyalty to the Tacsis at the end of the Scithrowl War, and most were now working as rogue operatives. Had one seen fit to take her out? If that was the case, she was dead. Shade-fist had never been her strength, and her injury only further hampered it. 

Still - she would not go down without a fight. Lily was sleeping in her crib in the corner of the room, and she would die before she let anything happen to her. She’d battle as hard as she could for the both of them. 

The figure entered her chambers, and Apple prepared to lunge - she needed to strike him before he had a chance to harm her - but paused when, instead of making any move to attack, they merely discarded their cloak and hung it on the door. 

Apple let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Ancestor, Kettle. You scared me. I wasn’t expecting you back until tomorrow.”

Kettle flashed her her trademark impish grin. “I finished up early. Missed my girls too much.”

They embraced. It felt almost stupidly good to be back in one another’s arms again - the relief she felt at having her home safe was palpable. “I was just thinking about you, actually,” she said, idly brushing a bit of travel-dirt from her habit.”

Kettle’s grin widened. “Filthy thoughts, I hope.”

Apple chuckled. Kettle was always fun when in this particular mood. “Not exactly - just thinking about how much I love you.”

Her lover’s expression softened, but her cheeky grin remained in place. “Sap. If your students saw you the way I do, they’d never fear you again. Your reputation as the oh-so-scary poisoner would be ruined.” She leaned in closer and pressed a brief kiss to her lips. “I love you too.”

* * *

The next day was Sevenday, and they decided to spend it by taking Lily down to Verity for the afternoon. The little girl loved watching the hum of the city - it was full of sights and sounds and smells that were very different to the things she experienced in the Convent. It was becoming something of a tradition of theirs. They normally bought street food from various vendors and then settled down to eat in the same park they originally took her to the day before they thought they’d be parted from her forever. There was something almost cathartic about returning with their daughter in tow - a reminder that they'd made the right decision, that their little family was worth it. 

The more she grew, the harder it was to keep an eye on her during these little excursions. Once upon a time, they could set her down on a blanket and she was content to lie back and take in the new sights. Now she was a little over six months old, and already crawling. If they stopped watching her for a  _ second _ , she’d be gone. Their experience in hunting down marks came in very handy with Lily. 

Apple took a languid bite of her food and watched Kettle play with their daughter. She was blowing raspberries on Lily’s stomach, which made the little girl laugh uproariously. They really were a sight together, and she loved them both  _ so _ much. She wouldn’t trade this for the world - her doubts yesterday had been stupid. She was nothing like her mother or father, and she was perfectly capable of looking after her daughter. All parents had their wobbles, right? It didn’t make her a bad mother. 

“I was meaning to ask,” Kettle said, looking up from her game with Lily, “How did you manage yesterday? Was she okay for you?”

Apple hesitated, wondering how much of the truth she should tell. Lying to Kettle wasn’t something she made a habit out of, but she didn’t like discussing her vulnerabilities. Still, Lily was such a holy terror yesterday that she’d probably hear about it from someone else eventually. All the nuns lived in close quarters, and a baby was still enough of a curiosity that they liked to keep an eye on her. 

“Not...great,” she admitted, “She cried for most of the day. Missed you, I think, and she’s got some teeth coming in.”

Kettle’s face clouded over with sympathy. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I missed the little rascal, too.” She tickled Lily’s foot, which prompted more laughter. 

“I… after a couple of hours, I started having all kinds of dark thoughts. I’m a terrible mother, unfit to care for her, she’d be better off without me… that sort of thing.” There was a note of vulnerability in her voice that she despised. Normally, she was better at concealing things like that - but she had never been very good at hiding things from Kettle.

Kettle takes her hand. “Hey.  _ Hey _ . None of that. You’re an amazing mother, and Lily loves you. What’s more, she’s lucky to have you - you remember where she was going to end up, right? She’s so much better off with us.”

Apple nodded slowly. She’d mostly come to that conclusion herself, but it was still nice to hear. Her crisis of confidence wasn’t the only thing from yesterday that was bothering her. “Thank you,” she said. “I needed to hear that. But something else happened - after maybe the sixth or seventh hour of screaming, I sort of mentally checked out. Starting having these - flashbacks, I suppose you could call them. About my childhood, and how I came to be at Sweet Mercy.”

Kettle frowned, her brow furrowed in concern. Her lover was the only person on Abeth she’d told all the gory details to, and even then, it wasn’t exactly a common topic of conversation. Both of them were haunted by the ghosts of their pasts and neither of them exactly enjoyed talking about it. She didn’t say anything further, waiting for Apple to continue. 

“It was...intense, but it got me thinking. I want to meet her - or at least, track her down. It feels like we have unfinished business.”

“Are you sure?” Kettle asked, skepticism evident in her voice. “That woman may not have beaten you in the way that he did, but she did damage to you nonetheless.”

Apple wasn’t entirely sure, but she’d been thinking about this ever since her strange trip down memory lane. She needed closure, or these thoughts may never leave her. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive. I want to find out. I haven’t forgiven her for the way she treated me - you know I’m not the forgiving type - but. I need to  _ know _ . To talk to her, if I can. I have a lot of things to ask her.”

Kettle nodded. “I’ll support you whatever you decide, but I don’t want to see you get hurt. Our mothers have a unique ability to hurt us in ways no one else can.” A shadow passed over her face, but it was gone in a flash. Apple squeezed her hand in return - Kettle had her own issues to deal with, and they could not be resolved as easily as this. 

“I think I’ll put some Greys on the case. People I trust. They can dig around for whatever information they can find, and I’ll decide what to do with it when they give it to me. It could be nothing - she could be dead. Ancestor knows, enough people died in the invasion and she isn’t a young woman.”

“I can handle that for you if you want,” offered Kettle. 

Apple shook her head. “No, you just got back. Young madame here would miss you -  _ I _ would miss you. I’ll send someone who hasn’t seen action in a while.”

Unamused with the lack of attention that was being paid towards her, Lily chose that moment to let out a huff of annoyance. They broke contact with one another and refocused attention on their daughter. 

“We should probably get back,” said Kettle after a while, “I promised Ara and Nona they could watch her for a while before dinner. Means I get you all to myself.”

* * *

It took a few weeks to find the information they needed, but her Greys came through. Her mother had continued to live on the farm for a couple of months after her father’s death, but she hadn’t been able to manage it on her own. She sold the farm and moved to a nearby village, where she married the local baker. The two of them went on to have three children and, by all accounts, lived very happy lives. Her husband had since passed, but she was still very much alive - and living in the bakery. 

Apple’s reaction to the news was….mixed. The village that she lived in was not far away - just a couple of hours away from Verity and the Convent, she and Kettle would probably be able to make it there and back again within a day - so why, after all this time, had she not tried to make contact? It had been thirty years. Her mother knew she was at Sweet Mercy - or at least, that she’d attended as a Novice - so why hadn’t she done so much as send a letter?

The knowledge that she had siblings was jarring. As a girl, she’d always wanted a little brother or sister. Someone she could look out for, play with, protect. She’d known even then that it wouldn’t be a good idea - she wouldn’t wish her father on an innocent child - but still, she dreamt. Apparently, she’d had siblings for all of her adult life - she just hadn’t known they existed. 

Apple and Kettle discussed in great detail what to do with this new information. Kettle suggested sending a letter, but Apple hadn’t wanted to do that. She’d spent a lot of time as a novice waiting for her mother to respond to her - she had clear memories of anxiously checking the post in the morning and being crushed when there was nothing there - and she didn’t want to go back to that. 

An impromptu visit would be best - she was at least guaranteed to get a reaction, and likely a more honest one. There wouldn’t be room for the preparation and artifice that a letter permitted. She always told her students that there was a time for subtlety and a time for action - this was the latter. 

They’d also debated whether or not they should bring Lily - the roads weren’t safe at the best of times, and her relationship with her mother was… complicated, to say the least - but she didn’t think the older woman would actually  _ hurt _ Lily, and the two of them were perfectly capable of handling whatever bandits were stupid enough to get in their way. Besides - Apple had no way of knowing how this meeting was going to go. She wanted both Kettle  _ and _ Lily there so that, if things went poorly, she had a visual reminder of the family she already had back at home. 

She busied herself with Lily on the journey to the village. Kettle tried to ask her about her mother several times - how she was feeling ahead of the reunion, whether or not she wanted to talk about the past - but Apple brushed her off. She didn’t want to overthink this. Fortunately, Lily made a marvelous distraction - they kept travelling past people and scenery that she’d never seen before, so she kept pointing and cooing excitedly. It was incredibly cute - she made a mental note to take her on more little day trips like this. It was good for her to see more of the outside world - Sweet Mercy was more than a little insular. Perhaps they could go and see the ocean…

They arrived at the village at around the same time that Bray would be ringing for midday meal back at the Convent. It was surprisingly large - a subsidiary town to Verity rather than a true rural village. The bakery wasn’t difficult to find - it was right in the centre of town, and appeared to be doing a roaring trade. Young children milled around outside of it, playing games with one another. Apple couldn’t help but notice that several of them were sporting red hair - the exact same shade as her own. They were far too young to be her siblings, but perhaps they were nieces and nephews. 

The knowledge that she even  _ had _ nieces and nephews after thinking she was alone for most of her life was mind-blowing. A part of her wanted to go to them, to introduce herself, to let Lily play with her cousins - but she knew that first, she should deal with the more pressing matter inside. 

She turned to Kettle and handed Lily over to her. “Can the two of you wait out here for a few minutes? I think I should talk to her alone, first. I’ll get a message to you when it’s safe to come in.”

Kettle nodded and flashed her a reassuring smile. Apple loved her smile - it was an expression that lighted up her whole face. No matter the situation, the sight of it never failed to make her feel better. Now was no exception - the panic boiling in her stomach cooled to a steady simmer. “Alright,” she said, “Send a pulse if you need us. I’ll show Lily around a bit. No doubt she’ll find twelve types of trouble to get into. You’ve got this.”

Apple pulled up the hood of her cloak and immersed herself in the Shadow - not so much as to render her totally invisible, but enough to make her unremarkable to passers by. She entered the bakery, carefully observing her surroundings. It was busy - the line of customers was almost out the door. The shop was full of freshly baked goods and smelled incredible - were she here for any reason other than her current one, it would have driven her to distraction. Behind the counter, quickly and efficiently dealing with her customers, was her mother.

It had been thirty years since she had seen her, but she would recognise her anywhere. She looked older, of course - her face was lined and her hair almost entirely grey - but other than that, she was the same. Same bright eyes, same kind smile, same country manners. 

Apple was struck with an odd wave of emotion that she wasn’t entirely sure how to name. She stood rooted to the spot, paralysed with indecision. Her mother was here, right in front of her, for the first time in thirty years. What on Abeth was she going to say to her? She’d spent so long deliberately avoiding thinking of this that she’d not thought of what she was going to say if she saw her again. Even when Kettle tried to prompt her, she changed the subject. 

Tallow would have punched her arm and told her to stop being ridiculous - she’d made the journey, and now she had to do what she came here to do. Her friend always had a knack for making her see sense, even after she was gone. 

Apple took a loaf of bread from a nearby shelf and joined the long queue. As each customer ahead of her was seen to, her anxiety spiked. She’d infiltrated enemy camps and taken down powerful opponents while half as nervous as this. 

“Next,” said her mother without looking up. Even her voice was the same - she still had her country accent. Apple wordlessly placed her bread on the counter.

“Three silvers, please.”

She fished around in her habit for the money - as Mistress Shade, she was allowed to carry more than was usual for a nun, as she needed to keep her supplies stocked - and put it next to the bread. She took a deep breath, and pulled down her hood. “Hello mother,” she said, her voice not as confident as she would like. 

Her mother properly  _ looked _ at her for the first time since she entered the shop, and gasped. A range of emotion passed over her face - shock, then disbelief, and then, finally, something that resembled joy. 

“Gracie?” she said, her voice weak with disbelief. 

Something about hearing her old nickname broke her. No one had called her that since she’d left the farm all those years ago. She’d been a more formal  _ Grace _ as a novice and then _ Apple _ or  _ Mistress Shade _ after. Even Kettle called her  _ Appy _ or other terms of endearment. The sound of it brought back the good memories - learning herbalism at her side, tending to animals together, being tucked in at night. Tears rose unbidden to her eyes, and she fell once more into her mother’s embrace. 

In that moment, the years that separated them fell away. They drew odd looks from customers, but neither of them cared. She was a little girl again, safely ensconced in her mother’s arms. It felt  _ good _ . 

It lasted all of a couple of seconds - because that had never been true. She’d never felt safe with her mother. Whatever brief moments of comfort she’d been able to offer her had been an illusion, or at least not enough to heal the torment she’d been subjected to on the daily. She pulled away. Her mother shouted something at someone in the back of the shop, who then came and took over for her at the counter. 

“Come on,” she said softly. “Come through to the back. We have a lot to talk about.”

Apple followed her, her head a riot of conflicting thoughts and feelings. They sat down in a sort of parlour, and her mother made her some tea. The normality of the gesture felt surreal - as if this was a regular meeting instead of a life-altering reunion. 

They sat in an awkward silence for a moment, neither of them quite sure where to begin. Perhaps she should have planned this more carefully - but then again, could you even plan something like this? It wasn’t as if it was one of her regular missions - those she could handle. Tail a target, discover their routines and weaknesses, take them out. Easy. This? Not so much.

“So,” the older woman said after a beat, “How have you been?” Her voice was shaky and nervous, but it seemed like she wanted a genuine answer.

Apple felt the bizarre urge to laugh. How did she even answer that question? How did one account for almost thirty missing years? “I’m...alright,” she said, finally. It was inadequate, she knew, but she didn’t know what else to say.

The older woman eyed her habit inquisitively. “You’re a nun? I knew it was a possibility when you were taken in at the Convent, of course, but - I don’t know - it was never something I could picture you doing. You were never very religious - I remember you practicing your reading in the few services I took you to. And you were always so…. spirited. But I suppose - people change. It’s been a long time. As long as you’re happy, I suppose.” Her voice took on an urgent tone. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

Apple nodded. “I am, yes. I’ve been a nun for twenty years now. Sweet Mercy is my home.” She could say more - she could tell her about Kettle, and about Lily - but she didn’t want to give that much away yet. She’d grown accustomed to keeping secrets, and she wasn’t going to tell her about them until she had more...something. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what, but  _ something _ . 

Her mother nodded, as if relieved by the answer. Apple turned the question back on her. “And you,” she asked, “You’re happy? I saw children playing outside. They look like I did when I was younger. Are they…?”

The older woman smiled, and pride seeped into the expression. “My grandchildren, yes. I don’t know if you knew this, but I remarried, a few years after your father...passed. We had three children together - two boys and a girl. They’re all grown up now, with kids of their own. They keep me busy, alright. I suppose you never… it doesn’t matter.”

Apple didn’t answer her not-quite question. She couldn’t continue with this small-talk without addressing the issues hanging between them like a knife. “Mother,” she said, curtly. “Why did you stop answering my letters? Why haven't I heard from you for almost thirty years?”

The expression on her mother’s face changes, as if a storm cloud had suddenly appeared and sucked all the light from the room. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “It’s...complicated. I figured out what you did. To Him. I was angry - furious. Almost mad with grief. I thought I loved him, you see - it was like he had me under some kind of spell. All the terrible things he would do to us… I excused it all, because I thought I loved him. I didn’t see through it for years - not until I left that place.”

“And then?” Apple asked, not bothering to conceal the bitterness in her voice, “After? I wrote to you for years. Why couldn’t you have answered any of them?”

“I wanted to write, I did! I must have started a hundred letters, but I could never finish them. I didn’t know how to have  _ this _ conversation. Because the truth is - the more distance I got, the more I realised how awful that relationship was. And I’m so, so sorry for this, but - you reminded me of him. Every time I thought about you, it brought me back to that place. It took years for me to stop thinking of you that way.”

Apple recoiled as if she’d been hit. Whatever she’d been imagining, whatever justification she thought her mother might come up with - it hadn’t been that. Her father was just about the worst person she’d ever known - and in her line of work, she’d come across some real pieces of work. Being linked to him in any way  _ hurt _ like a gaping wound. 

The worst thing was, she understood. She’d spent years unable to think of her mother without also thinking of him. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake - it had been too long, there was too much fraught history in between them. They were two people standing at opposite ends of a chasm, no possible way to reconnect. 

She exhaled visibly. Her entire body seemed to sag with the motion - it was as if everything she’d ever learned or taught about controlling emotion and putting on a performance had flown out the window. “I understand,” she said, voice more vulnerable than she would ever have chosen for it to be, “I-I’ll get out of your way. Leave you to get back to your life.”

“What?” said her mother, visibly shocked. “No.  _ No _ . Please.” She sank to her knees. “ _ Please _ . I just got you back - I can’t lose you again.” 

She reached a hand out to Apple, who did not take it. Instead, she narrowed her eyes. “But you just said-”

“I was being  _ honest _ with you, something I never managed before. I couldn’t think of you without also thinking of him, true, but I moved past it. Or at least - I started to.” She sighed. It made her seem older, as if the weight of all she’d been through was pressing down on her body. “I failed you. I failed you, and I’m so,  _ so _ sorry. You were a little girl, and I didn’t protect you from the man that was hurting you.” She took a deep breath. “I should have taken you and ran, but I didn’t. I was afraid, and I thought that I was in love. I’m sorry.”

Apple exhaled. This was a lot to take in. She’d wanted to hear her mother apologise for a very long time, but now that it was happening - she didn’t know how she felt. For a moment - just a moment - she allowed herself to imagine the scenario the older woman presented. A life spent together - likely, they would have struggled for a bit. Abeth wasn’t an easy place for a woman and her daughter alone. They could have made it work, though - perhaps her mother would still have married the baker. Apple would have grown up with brothers and sisters. 

Except - she wouldn’t be Apple. She’d be Grace - whoever that was. She wouldn’t have the skills she’d spent years cultivating. She would never have met Kettle, and they never would have had Lily. Her life since she left the farm may not have been easy, and there were things she wished had never happened at all, but she would not trade the two of them for the world. 

She couldn’t change the things that happened to her - but she could control how she moved forward. She may not have entirely forgiven her mother for the things that hung between them, but she supposed they could work towards it. She  _ wanted  _ her mother in her life, and she wanted Lily to know her grandmother. Tentatively, she reached out and took her mother’s outstretched hand in her own. 

“So,” she said, voice more confident than it had been all day, “where do we go from here?”

A wide grin split her mother’s face, and she reached up to caress her cheek. It felt like it did when she was a girl. She closes her eyes for a split second, relishing the feeling. “Wherever you want, sweetheart. It’s taken longer than either of us would have liked, but we’re together again. We can… get to know one another after all this time. Anything. Whatever you want.”

She should probably tell her mother about Kettle and Lily, given that they were still outside somewhere. She sent a pulse down the shadow-bond she shared with her lover - there. They’d be here in a moment. “There’s something you should probably know. I have a daughter.”

Confusion travelled across her mother’s face. “I thought you were a nun?”

“I am,” said Apple, as she realised for the first time how bizarre it sounded to outsiders. “It’s - a long story.”

The other woman raised a curious eyebrow. “I’ve got all day. Molly - that’s  _ my _ daughter - is minding the shop. What’s her name?”

“Lily. Someone left her at the Convent’s doorstep when she was only a few hours old. My partner and I - we took her in.”

“You have a partner? What kind of Convent  _ is _ this?”

Apple stifled a laugh. If only she knew.

“Where are they?” she persisted. “Are they back at that place? I’d like to meet them, if you don’t mind.”

The unmistakable sound of baby gibberish interrupted their conversation. It was coming from the direction of the stairs. 

“I don’t think you’ll be waiting very long for that,” she said, inclining her head towards the noise. 

Her mother turned around only to be greeted by the sight of Kettle and Lily standing awkwardly in the doorway. Lily was wearing a big grin on her face, clearly happy with her time exploring. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” said Kettle smoothly, “But this one wanted to see her mama.”

She handed the baby over to Apple, who planted a grateful kiss onto her forehead. There was nothing quite like holding your child after an emotionally draining experience. Lily nestled comfortably in her arms while Kettle and her mother made small-talk. “Do you want to meet your grandmother, little one?” she whispered. 

Lily, being an infant, did not understand the question. She merely looked up at her with wide, trusting eyes. Apple could see her mother watching them even as she chatted. She placed the little girl in the old woman’s arms, who immediately began making a fuss of her. Lily, at first, didn’t look happy to be held by a stranger but adored attention, and her grandmother certainly provided enough of that. 

Something constricted in Apple’s heart at the sight of them together. She may not have had the relationship with her mother than she wanted growing up, but at least her daughter would. 

Kettle made her way over to Apple and wrapped an arm around her. “You okay?” she whispered, quietly enough that no one aside from the two of them would hear. 

Apple wrapped her own arm around Kettle and rested her head on her shoulder. “I will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed the behemoth of a fic. if you want to chat to me, you can find me on twitter @gaelalear or on tumblr @applekettle


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